For the last few years of my life, I’ve lauded Greta Gerwig’s 2017 coming-of-age drama Lady Bird as the closest thing to a favourite film an indecisive English student can have. But now I’ve dyed my red hair back to brown, fixed my relationship with my mother, and found myself settled at uni – granted, not quite “where culture is”, but with a sizable collection of leather jackets to make up for it. As I enter into my third and final year of university, the intensity of teenage angst is fading, instead giving way to a creeping existential dread. The realisation has hit that there is no longer a “when I grow up”. This is it – and it’s terrifying.

“The film is not concerned with Frances’ end goal, but focuses on small and innately human moments throughout the process. These moments, more than any achievement, are what make up a life.”

Fortunately, Gerwig has an indie drama in her back pocket for seemingly every stage of life, and Frances Ha (2013) is a love letter to the many uncertainties which follow the so-called “coming of age”. Gerwig stars as Frances: a 27 year old aspiring dancer in New York who struggles to reconcile the growing success and maturity of those around her with her own stagnated progress. Filmed simply in black and white, Gerwig and Noah Baumbach’s witty, well-observed writing manages to capture tentative adulthood in all its humour and clumsiness, while still maintaining a firm emotional core. Accompanied by a soaring soundtrack, Frances runs, leaps and dances through the film – not with any particular talent or grace, but with an evident love for life in whatever form it presents itself. Yet when asked the inevitable “so what do you do?” she struggles to answer because, as she says, she “doesn’t really do it”. In the adult world a love for dance is pointless unless mediated with the description “hobby” and bested by a dinner party-appropriate job description.

At Cambridge, expectations of success are in place before the graduation hood has even touched our heads. The unspoken rule seems to be that all our work has been for nothing if we don’t fall straight into a high-paying, world-changing dream job before the ancient age of 23. Far too often the brilliant, intelligent women I am lucky enough to call friends berate their own incompetence over the LinkedIn profile of someone we barely know; no matter how much you do, there always seems to be someone who is doing more. The pressure of this institution forces a warped worldview in which you are constantly chasing the next achievement, with little room for trial and none at all for error. But as Gerwig constantly reminds us, to be figuring yourself out in your teens is a rite of passage – why is it so much less forgivable in your twenties?

“The realisation has hit that there is no longer a ‘when I grow up’. This is it – and it’s terrifying.”

Much of Frances Ha navigates the meaningless timeframes that are imposed particularly on young women: when to get a “real” job, when to find a partner, when to find a permanent place to live. Its episodic nature means that the film itself feels unstructured and unsure of where it is going – but this is much more true to life, in which progress is never linear. Frances experiences many setbacks, and is at one point forced to return to her old college to work off some ill-spent debt. Gerwig plays this moment for comedic effect, but it also tears down the myth that life after university follows an upward path of growth. A seemingly unimpressive career choice can be a pragmatic step back with an eye to a wider goal, and while Frances is forced to reshape her dreams, she never gives up on them altogether. Ultimately the film is not concerned with Frances’ end goal, but focuses on small and innately human moments throughout the process. These moments, more than any achievement, are what make up a life.

In what sometimes feels like a claustrophobic pool of over-achievers, it’s relieving to watch a film which not only reflects, but celebrates an ostensibly underwhelming life. While Frances herself sometimes feels like a failure, we as the audience see her as more than the sum of her external achievements: her awkward humour and love for her friends are what compels us to her. It serves as a reminder that life after university is not going to be a consecutive string of ticked boxes, and nor should we want it to be. In a nod to those times of uncertainty in which we feel like we don’t quite fit into what society expects of us, the final sequence of Frances Ha reveals that the title is based on half of Frances’ full name, ironically not quite able to fit into the name plate of her new apartment. But at the end of the day, it’s a name tag – not unfinished, just still in progress.